


The Adventure of the Empty Basement

by deynaianbloom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deynaianbloom/pseuds/deynaianbloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The newest resident of 221b Baker Street is annoying, stupid, shouldn't be clever at all, and is probably the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock Holmes. (But try getting him to admit that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Empty Basement

A.N. This story is set between Hounds of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall. When I started writing it, season 3 STILL wasn’t out yet, and there’s certain elements to the plot that happen before Sherlock fakes his death. So, remember that when reading. Enjoy, and remember to read and review!  
-i-  
Prologue  
-i-  
THE PERSONAL BLOG OF  
Dr. John H. Watson-------September 13  
\--The Adventure of the Empty Basement--  
It is well known that the building I live in has a third apartment, which up until now has remained empty. Mrs. Hudson says it’s because of the damp, and since I tend to agree with her on the subject, I believed that 221c Baker Street would always be an empty damp basement.  
Recent events have since proved us both wrong, and I must report that 221c now has an occupant. Needless to say, this has ruffled the feathers of my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes, who dislikes his normal routines being interrupted, and since 221c is only a small bedroom, our new neighbour will be sharing the bathroom and kitchen of 221b. Sherlock is less than pleased.  
It all started two days ago, which was a particularly beastly night. It had been raining since teatime, and as the day got darker, the rain grew heavier. Sherlock and I were still awake, even though the hour was well past decent. Well, Sherlock was awake. I was sleeping in my armchair, but he didn’t notice and was still continuing the conversation.  
“It’s so ludicrous that no one noticed the flowers were missing,” Sherlock said with a grin while he plucked his violin casually. He had not yet become aware that I had dozed off twenty minutes ago. “Everyone suspected that the mother-in-law was guilty, which was of course ridiculous. One look could tell the only thing she cared about was gambling away the family fortune.” Three knocks sounded from the front door knocker, but Sherlock stayed still, lost in his thoughts as always. “There’s someone at the door,” he said to me, and after getting no response for several minutes, he repeated himself in a louder voice. Finally, Sherlock glanced over and noticed that I was sleeping peacefully in my chair (I only know all of what he said before I woke up because he told me). He quickly slapped my knee with his violin bow, making me jump awake.  
“What? What happened?” I asked in a panic, still half asleep.  
“I said, there’s someone at the door,” Sherlock answered while plucking a few strings again.  
I looked at my friend with disbelief. “There’s someone….I was sleeping!”  
“Yes, and I was thinking. That’s more important,” Sherlock retorted back to me.  
“For the love of…” I muttered under my breath and got up to go answer the door. That’s when all the fun began.  
-i-  
Chapter 1  
-i-  
“You are so stupid, Violet,” I muttered to myself over the steady English downpour. I’d never felt so stupid in my entire life. If my grandmother could see me now… She wanted me to see the world after she died, but I bet me wandering the streets of London, soaking wet, no hotel, and a broken umbrella, wasn’t quite what she had in mind.  
Somehow I’d walked into a residential area near the hotel I was supposed to stay at, tugging along my bright blue suitcase and mumbling to myself. Through the dense rain, I managed to make out a single light in the upstairs window of one of the houses. Someone was awake at this time of night. Maybe they knew where I should go, or maybe they had a couch I could sleep on. I plastered on a face full of desperation, which wasn’t hard to do, and marched across the street to ring their doorbell.  
The letters ‘221b’ were on the door. Right next to the door was a sandwich place, but to my stomach’s dismay, they weren’t open. I sighed and used the knocker to knock three times. No one answered for a few minutes, and I almost decided to try my luck somewhere else, but then I saw a shadow move in the window above me and heard footsteps on the stairs. Thank god.  
A blonde man answered the door dressed in a pull-over sweater and jeans. He smiled so charmingly at me, I had to smile back. “Are you a client?” he asked me in his thick British accent.  
A client? Was this a brothel or something? “Umm, no,” I said over the rain. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but this was the only house with a light on, and there was a problem with my hotel and I just…” I breathed to stop my rambling and realized I had a few tears in my eyes. “Can I come inside, please? It’s so cold out here.”  
Tears are men’s kryptonite, usually, and this man obviously thought I looked pathetic, because he stepped aside and opened his front door wider so I could get past him. “Come in,” he said with a gesture of his hand. I gladly joined him in the foyer and he shut the front door after me. “I’m not in the habit of making pretty women stand in the rain.” He smiled at me again, this time less warmly, as if he’d decided I wasn’t his type. Maybe it was the tears. “Come on up and I’ll make you some tea.”  
I followed him up the stairs, lugging my suitcase along with me. The living room at the top of the stairs was nice and warm, although the décor and wall colors said the owner didn’t use this room to relax. It was obvious that the man who answered the door wasn’t the decorator. Another man sat by the fireplace, staring off into space and plucking the strings of a violin resting in his lap. Black clothes, rigid posture, brown ringlets that wouldn’t dare be messy. My eyes moved to the numerous stacks of books around the room, and I tried not to be excited at the sight of them.  
“I’m John Watson,” said the man who answered the door.  
“Violet Stoner.” We shook hands. “Thank you so much for letting me in. There was a problem with my hotel reservation and I couldn’t get a taxi because it’s so late.”  
“Gullible,” the other man said under his breath.  
“My roommate, Sherlock Holmes.” John gestured to the man with the violin. “And you can sleep here tonight, Miss Stoner. The sofa is all we have, I’m afraid, but it’s warm and dry.”  
“Stop flirting,” Sherlock said, again under his breath, no doubt thinking we couldn’t hear him.  
John acted as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “I’ll get that tea I promised you, so you make yourself comfortable.” He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Sherlock, who was still staring off into space. I sat down on their sofa and started reading the spines of the nearest pile of books.  
“How long have you been playing football?” Sherlock asked after several minutes of me contemplating if it was okay to pick up one of the books. “Or soccer, as you Americans call it.”  
“Pardon?”  
“Sherlock, can you not do that right now?” John asked as he came back into the room with the tea tray. “I apologize, Miss Stoner. He likes to read people’s life story from the dirt on their shoes.” He set the tea tray onto a wooden table near their chairs and poured me a cup, then handed it to me.  
“Thank you,” I said before taking a sip. “Why are you asking about football?” I asked Sherlock.  
Sherlock’s head shot to me, his features looking bored, like I was a stupid child asking what Christmas is. “Your legs are muscular, and you have scars on your knees, suggesting you run quite a bit and fall often. Your bright blue socks can only be part of a football uniform and you’ve managed to find a suitcase of the same colour. Maybe you just like blue. More likely it’s your team colour. Your nails are all manicured short because you work with your hands, so I’d say you are a goalie, and the fact that you have a slight limp probably means that you were injured during a game and are now retired, which accounts for the few extra pounds on your stomach, breasts, and hips. You’re also obviously a book reader, since your back is somewhat hunched, and when you walked in this room, the only things you noticed were the stacks of books on the floor.”  
My mouth fell open and John almost dropped his cup of tea. “Sherlock!” He sighed, bottling his anger, something I could tell he did often. “I am so sorry, Miss Stoner, don’t pay any attention to him.”  
Like I can forget someone who says I’m fat. “I don’t play football,” I said quietly, sipping my tea, and looking anywhere else in the room but at Sherlock.  
“Yes you do,” he said confidently, and plucked more strings with a contented cat-like look on his face.  
“You don’t play football?” John said, very confused. “You don’t?”  
I shook my head. “Never.” I wasn’t a sports person, so I couldn’t fathom why someone would think I was.  
John looked me over slowly, studied me. “But that doesn’t…” He stopped, lost for words. I could tell that John was used to Sherlock being right in all his observations. The thought of Sherlock being wrong…from John’s reaction, it never happened.  
I guess there’s a first time for everything.  
i-i


End file.
